


Sharp

by aneurysmface



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, NOT suicide-related, Self-Harm, do not read if you are triggered by self-harm, it's consensual but still, legit do not reed this if you are squicked by the idea of somebody using a knife on somebody else, please note that the character who is self-harming is not doing it as a means of committing suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aneurysmface/pseuds/aneurysmface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't do it because he hates his life, he does it to remind himself that he is alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Sharp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233661) by [Silmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silmary/pseuds/Silmary)



Sometimes Clint just needed to hurt. He needed the pain as a reminder that he was alive and, more recently, as proof that he wasn't under Loki's control. When he'd been held captive in his own mind, he'd been unable to feel; emotion, pain, he couldn't feel anything. Usually he got beat up enough on missions that he didn't have to take drastic steps, but every now and then, the job would be easy and he'd come back without so much as a hangnail. It was for those days that he kept the knife next to his bed.

He'd make a couple marks, never enough to draw attention if they were seen. Which never happened anyway since he stuck to his upper thighs where it was unlikely to be seen unless he was completely naked. Just a few crisp red lines on his skin and the world would tilt back to the way it should be. And he was fine with that for a while, until he walked into his room one night, going on six days without a mission and craving more than the bumps and bruises he'd get out of sparring with Natasha, and found Phil Coulson sitting on his bed with Clint's knife in his hand.

“Show me.” He said and Clint had never really been one to disobey Phil. Sure, he'd give him a hard time over the comms, but in the end whenever Phil said “shoot”, Clint had taken the shot. Now was no different, his hands already starting to open his jeans. He slid them down, hiked up his boxers, and turned his leg so the neat rows of lines were visible.

Clint watched Phil's reaction carefully, blue eyes like lasers as Phil took in what he saw. He watched as Phil stood and walked over to him and crouched to examine the scars, his fingers tracing over the newest ones (three months, nine days) gently.

“Why?” Phil asked, voice hoarse.

Clint took a deep breath, “Because it proves I'm still alive, still _me_.”

Phil nodded sharply before rising. He held the knife out to Clint, handle first. “I trust you to know what you're doing.”

He moved to leave, but Clint grabbed his wrist. “Coulson, look... this isn't... I don't want to die. At least not any more. That isn't why I do this.”

Phil nodded again, but left without another word, his wrist slipping easily out of Clint's grasp.

After that, everything went back to what they had been for a while. The Avengers got called out on missions and Clint picked up an injury or two on each one. For a while it was good. And then Phil ended up in SHIELD medical with an arrow through his shoulder. One of _Clint's_ arrows. Rationally, Clint knew that it wasn't his fault, that there was no way he could have known that Loki had figured out how to summon people out of thin air, but he still blamed himself. And seeing Loki—seeing Phil hurt because of him—brought back too many memories from when he'd helped Loki get onto the Helicarrier, shooting fellow agents in order to do so. The guilt was doubled because this was _Phil_ ; Phil who Clint was head-over-heels in love with and had been since day three when Phil had pulled out his “no-nonsense, follow my orders or you will have enough paperwork for four lifetimes” voice and sent shivers running down Clint's spine.

So Clint stayed with Phil the entire time he was in medical. He let Sitwell debrief him while Phil was in surgery. The arrow had embedded in Phil's right pectoral—a few scant inches shy of matching the last scar Loki had been responsible for—and had gone in almost to the fletching.

Phil had a punctured lung and was missing part of his liver, but he was alive and that calmed Clint a bit. Even still, he sat at Phil's bedside while he was sedated. The docs woke him up four days in and Clint hadn't moved except to use the bathroom. Natasha had brought him food, understanding why he was there and why he refused to leave.

Phil slept soundly for a few hours while his sedatives wore off, but blinked his eyes open soon enough and Clint felt his chest unclench for the first time in four days.

“Clint?” Phil's voice was scratchy and raw with disuse. Clint grabbed the cup of ice chips from next to the bed and fished one out, placing it carefully in Phil's mouth, fingers brushing against chapped lips without meaning to.

“It's good to see you awake, sir.”

Phil glared at him, though it lacked most of its usual heat. “Stop blaming yourself, Barton. This wasn't--”

“My fault. I know that, logically, but I can't help but feel responsible. _I_ shot you. It was _my_ arrow they pulled out of you. And that—it was too close, sir. A few inches and I could have killed you.” Clint's voice broke a little then, stomach roiling at the idea of being the one who killed Phil.

“Barton. Barton. _Clint_.” Phil tried to get his attention. He looked up at his first name. “This _is not_ your fault. I don't blame you.”

Clint just nodded and Phil continued, “That said, I know you're going to blame yourself no matter what I say, so if there's _anything_ I can do to help you get over your misplaced guilt, I want you to tell me, OK?”

And Clint was taken aback for a moment by the sincerity in Phil's voice. He actually meant it. Clint knew what would help, but wasn't sure if he should bring it up. Instead, he just nodded again and stood. He was at the door when Phil called out to him.

“I meant it when I said anything.” And for a second, Clint thought Phil might already know what Clint needed.

“I'll let you know.” He said before walking out the door.

 

Clint took two weeks to make up his mind. Phil was in medical under close supervision for one of those and confined to desk work for the other. Clint waited until medical cleared Phil for light physical activity (which meant Phil could take the stairs now—but only two flights at a time). When he finally decided he was ready, he grabbed his knife (because he knew it was sharp, knew if would cut easily) and knocked on Phil's door. He took a deep breath as he waited, listening for footsteps he'd never hear even without the wall between them. He looked up from his feet when the door clicked open.

“Clint? What do you need?” Phil's voice was still a bit hoarse, his breathing a smidgen off from what Clint knew by heart from years of being able to just listen to Phil's steady breaths on the comms during missions. He didn't answer directly, just held out the knife handle.

“I think you should come in.” Phil said, stepping back to allow Clint in. He nodded and and stepped into the apartment, surveying the room as Phil closed the door and slid the lock into place. Clint turned his head when Phil stepped up beside him.

“You sure about this?” Phil asked, his voice soft with concern.

Clint nodded, “Yeah... I... I really think it will help.”

“That's all I need to hear. Where do you want to do this?”

“Usually I do it laying down, so, bed? I don't want to like, ruin your sheets or anything, though.” Clint dropped his head and voice and Phil's hand reached up to tilt Clint's head back up, trying to make their eyes meet.

“Hey, listen.” Clint kept his eyes averted and Phil changed tactics, dropping his voice and putting an edge to it, “Barton, you will listen to me.” And that got Clint's attention, brought his eyes up. “Sheets are replaceable. I can go to the store and get another set whenever I want. _You_ are one-of-a-kind. I can't just go down to Macy's and pick up a new smart-mouthed archer. Understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Phil prompted and didn't miss Clint's eyes sliding shut or the way his hands clenched at his sides.

“Yes, _sir_.”

“Good. Now get moving.” Phil put a hand on Clint's back and pushed him gently in the direction of the bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Phil double checked the locks and turned off the lights in the hall and living room before following him. Clint had stripped down to his boxers and was lying stiffly on Phil's bed. He'd elected to keep the boxers on because while he would be more than happy with things progressing to naked and sweaty, he wasn't going to presume. He knew this couldn't be easy for Phil. He was surprised, then, when Phil walked in, took on look at Clint, and stripped to his boxers.

“You don't have to, sir.” He said.

“No, but I want to be as equal as possible.” Phil sat on the bed next to Clint, knife in one hand and the other coming to rest on Clint's thigh, his thumb stroking softly along the row of scars. “Clint, I don't _want_ to hurt you--”

“You aren't going to. I promise. I wouldn't ask you to do this otherwise. I wouldn't trust you to do this if I thought you'd hurt me.” Clint reached for the hand holding the knife and moved it so it was hovering just over his skin. “I think ten is good for tonight.” Clint's voice was steady, despite his nervousness. Phil nodded.

“Ready?” He waited for Clint to confirm before pressing lightly on the knife, trailing the blade softly across the skin. Clint sucked in a breath at the sting of it, relishing in the feeling, but it wasn't enough.

“C'mon, you can do better.” He goaded Phil.

The next slice carried more weight behind it and the third was so close to perfect that Clint couldn't hold back his groan. His cock twitched, half hard in his boxers from Phil and the knife and _Phil_.

Phil who was currently pulling his hands away from Clint. “Did I press to hard?”

Clint opened his eyes, “No. God, no. That was perfect.”

And Clint could see the understanding click together on Phil's face. Clint braced himself for Phil to bolt or tell Clint how much of a freak he was for getting off on this. Except instead, the knife just came back down on his skin with that perfect, even pressure and Clint fisted his hands in the sheets to keep from bucking up. Another slice quickly after that made five. Halfway and he was already almost out of it with lust.

Phil put his free hand high on Clint's thigh, pinkie just brushing the crease of groin and leg. There was no way he could miss Clint's erection at this point. Not with his hand laying practically on top of it. He laid the knife on Clint's skin, not pressing in, not cutting, but teasing, not moving at all, a promise.

“Please, Phil. Just a few more. _Please_.” Clint knows his voice is wrecked, his need making his words thready.

Phil moved his hand so it rested on Clint's lower belly, his thumb brushing just along the waistband of Clint's boxers, sending tiny shocks of electricity through Clint, each running straight to his cock. He bucked his hips up at the sixth cut Phil made. Phil's hand slipped below the elastic of Clint's boxers and his fingers brushed teasingly against Clint's erection for cuts seven and eight.

Clint's breathing was laboured. “Phil, god, fuck, you're such a fucking tease, Phil.” He said when Phil got ready to make the ninth cut and stopped just short of moving.

“Teasing implies lack of follow through.” Phil answered, his voice wavering subtly as he finally made the cut. Clint coked out a sob and tried futilely to buck his hips up but Phil had put pressure on them.

“Please. One more. Just one more. 'S all I need, Phil. _Please_.”

Phil swallowed hard at all of Clint's begging. Seeing him laying prone and wanton had Phil harder than he could remember being for a long time, but tonight was about Clint. He removed his hand from Clint's boxers and ignore the whimper of protest before raising the hand with the knife and deftly cutting the fabric off of Clint. He took a moment to admire Clint's cock, flushed and leaking onto his stomach.

“Please, Phil. Please, please, please...” Clint trailed off.

Phil brought the knife back to Clint's leg. “One more, but you will _not_ come. Understand?”

Clint whimpered, but nodded yes and screwed his eyes shut, thinking of everything he could to keep his body in check. He gasped when the knife touched his skin and his cock jumped as Phil made the final mark. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, pupils blown so wide that there was hardly any blue left. Phil put the knife down on the bedside table and dragged his fingers through the blood that was rolling off Clint's leg. Clint whined again.

“Shit, fuck, Phil. Dammit, please. I'm so close. Just touch me, please. _Please_.”

Phil nodded and moved his bloody hand to wrap firmly around Clint's cock. He pumped it in steady thrusts, twisting his grip at the head and then sped up without warning. All he could hear were Clint's pleas in the background.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded and watched Clint struggle to do so. Phil locked gazes with him. “Now. Come for me, Clint.”

Clint made a few weak sounds and then he was coming in long spurts across his stomach, mouth wide and gasping for air as his entire body tightened to one point. Phil worked him through his aftershocks before standing and moving to the bathroom. He grabbed a couple washcloths and ran them under warm water, picked up some rubbing alcohol and gauze, and returned to where Clint looked like he was passed out. He sat on the edge of the bed where he'd been before and started cleaning Clint up. He wiped the blood up first, then sterilized the cuts and wrapped them tightly in the gauze. Then he wiped up Clint's cock and torso, wincing sympathetically at Clint's grunt of pain as the rough washcloth dragged on sensitive skin.

Phil tossed the cloth towards the laundry hamper and put everything else on the table. He eased the blanket (which would need to be replaced, but that was hardly important) out from under Clint and drew it up to the other man's chin. Then he made is way to the other side of the bed and climbed in. He was barely settled when Clint moved to curl around him, one hand coming to rest on Phil's chest, his thumb brushing lightly across Phil's newest scar.

“Sorry 'bout your sheets. I'll make it up t'you.” Clint mumbled into Phil's shoulder.

“Go to sleep.” Phil said and pressed a kiss to Clint's forehead.

“Yes, sir.”

Phil waited and within minutes, Clint was snoring softly. In the morning, they were going to need to have a long talk about where they went from here, but for now Phil was content with holding Clint close as he fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Clint's outlook on self-harm is something that I have seen in myself and in several of my friends. It does exist out there in the world and I have represented it as I have experienced it. However, self-harming is serious no matter the reasons. Please, if you ever feel the need to self-harm, I urge you to re-think and try to talk to somebody instead. If you suspect a friend of self-harming, please take the time to talk to them. If you feel uncomfortable confronting them alone, find a trustworthy adult such as an adviser or counselor.


End file.
